A group of six girls came by, walking side by side, arm in arm, sometimes running, sometimes slowing to an amble. “He spills ash when he empties his pipe,” he whispered once they had passed. “He mislays postage stamps. Not on purpose, he actually mislays them. You can’t find them, and that’s all that matters. He wipes his fingers on his clothes. He turns off the radio. If I play around with the fork, he thinks I’ve gone mad. And he spears things from off the platter. That is unclean. And he often goes without a tie. Yet great is his goodness.” He remained standing and gazed out over the water. “See my mother,” he said quietly. “She says I should stay at home, nice and cosy. That I should wear the white jumper. She makes oliebollen with the wrong pieces of apple. I will explain that to you sometime, when the occasion arises. She lights the fire and fills the room with smoke. And she melted the attic keys. Almighty, everlasting, she thought she was buying wine, but it was fruit juice. The sweet, good woman. Berry-apple. She moves her head back and forth when she reads. She is my mother. See her in her immeasurable goodness.” Using his sleeve to wipe a tear from the corner of his right eye, he walked on.
“A thousand years are as one day unto you,” he continued, “and as a watch by night. Behold the days of my parents. Old age approaches, illnesses possess them, and there is no hope. Death approaches and the grave yawns. In fact, it’s not even a grave, because they’ll be put in an urn: we pay for that in weekly instalments.” He shook his head.
“See them,” he whispered, “for whom there is no hope. They live in solitude. However they cast about, they touch only emptiness. Their bodies are prey to decline. He does still have hair on his head, a whole thatch of it. No, bald he is not. But that will come.”
He had reached the front door. “Peace,” he thought, “it is over. There is peace. Sublime good cheer abounds.” Head bowed, he went in, quietly climbed the stairs and crossed the landing slowly. In the living room his father was standing by the fire in his underwear. “Good evening,” Frits said. “So, my boy,” the man answered. “How could anyone develop a paunch like that?” Frits thought. “A pregnant manservant.” “All-powerful God,” he said to himself, “behold this. What do they call underwear like that, with shirt and pants all of a single piece? A union suit, I believe.” He took a good look at the garment. At the rear, by the lower back, was a long vertical split that stood open. “I can see his crack,” he thought. “The crap flap is open.” “Lord almighty,” he said to himself, “look upon him: his crack is showing. Look upon this man. He is my father. Keep him from harm. Protect him. Lead him in peace. He is your child.”
“Frits, is that you?” his mother called from the bedroom. He entered. She was lying in bed. “Was there anything going on outside?” she asked. “Not much,” he said, “a few rockets.”
His father entered from the living room and climbed into bed. He reached over to the reading light, which stood on a chair beside the bed, and turned it off. “Don’t stay up too late, will you?” his mother asked. “I am going straight to bed,” Frits replied. “Good night.” “Don’t trip over the cord,” she said. He left the room, stepping high, turned off the light in the living room and went to brush his teeth in the kitchen. Suddenly he stopped, the toothbrush still in his mouth, and spread his arms. He strode to the mirror in the hall and stood before it. He removed the toothbrush from his mouth.
“I live,” he whispered, “I breathe. And I move. I breathe, I move, therefore I live. What could possibly happen? Calamities, pains and horrors may come. But I live. I can be confined, or visited by gruesome diseases. But still I breathe, and I move. And I live.” He walked back to the kitchen, finished brushing his teeth and entered his bedroom.
“Rabbit,” he said, cradling the rabbit on his arm, “your punishment has been revoked, in view of your resounding accomplishments for the cause.” He placed the animal on the desk, closed the curtains and began to undress. When he was finished, he drummed his fists against his chest and ran his hands over his body. He pinched the scruff of his neck, his stomach, his calves and thighs. “Everything is finished,” he whispered, “it has passed. The year is no more. Rabbit, I am alive. I breathe, and I move, so I live. Is that clear? Whatever ordeals are yet to come, I am alive.”
Drawing his lungs full of air, he climbed into bed. “It has been seen,” he murmured, “it has not gone unnoticed.” He stretched himself out and fell into a deep sleep.
Amsterdam, Sunday, 18th May 1947
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Copyright
Pushkin Press
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London WC2H 9JQ
Original text © 1946 Erven Gerard Reve
Published with De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Translation © Sam Garrett 2016
First published in Dutch as De Avonden in 1946
This translation first published by Pushkin Press in 2016
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Dutch Foundation for Literature
ISBN 978 1 782272 27 4
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